The Hunger (28 page)

I am sick. Usually I shake off an infection but this time it goes on for days and gets worse. Eventually I go to see the doctor and he gives me a small bottle of medicine. I tell him
I’m very ill and he reassures me I will be well soon. I get up to leave the surgery but when I reach the door I stop, look at the small bottle of medicine and ask: Are you sure this is
enough? Are you sure?

I woke up sweating, my heart beating and, when I tried to get back to sleep, the words kept bouncing around my head:
Are you sure this is enough? Are you sure?

I place the roses down on the grave and feel inside my jacket pocket. I pull out the silver key I’ve kept in my bedside table. As I bury it by the headstone, I think:

—I never found which door it opens.

I am about to leave when I feel a fly land on my neck. I swat it away. Another lands, and another, until there must be a dozen of them, buzzing around my head. I hear a familiar voice:

—I never thought I would see you here.

I turn and see a man standing by a tree. He is perhaps twenty feet away but the stench he gives off makes me feel sick. He looks like he has just been released from a concentration camp. His
skin is covered in sores and wrapped so tight around his bones I’m sure it’s about to tear like paper. He is balancing on a walking stick that looks like it might once have been quite
fashionable but is now so worn that all the varnish has come off and the wood is rotting. The long, black coat he’s wearing has almost completely disintegrated, as have his shirt and
trousers. His feet are bare and, as I look closer, I notice his skin and clothes seem to be moving. I take a step towards him and gasp as I see his entire body is crawling with insects. The flies
that disturbed me are living on him. There are other insects, too: caterpillars, spiders, cockroaches. His face breaks into a half-smile and it’s then that I recognise him.

—Esurio?

There’s a long pause while he just stares at me.

—Ah, so you know who I am, even when you see me like this. Bravo, Lincoln, bravo.

His voice is frail and barely rises above a whisper.

—What happened to you?

—Nothing happened to me.

—But you’re so old and . . . dying . . .

—You think I have ever looked any different?

—Of course you have. You used to be so fashionable and handsome. And that was only a few months ago.

—No. You are wrong. I have always been as you see me now. The well-dressed man you knew was just the man you chose to see. If you had eyes then as you do now, this is what you would have
seen. Look at me. Could you believe in a man like this? Could you follow him, Lincoln? It’s a source of great sadness to me that I can no longer hide myself from you.

We stand facing each other for what seems like forever until I tell him:

—I have to go now and I will never see you again.

His face hardens into irritation:

—You can’t say that, Lincoln. Despite the way I look I will not die and I will never be far away from you. I agree there will be days when you will not think of me but there will be
other days, many of your days, when you will pine for me like a lover, and there will be a Special Day we both know will come when you need me again and I promise I will be strong and dress well
for the party. Until then, I want you to know, I am waiting, Lincoln, waiting, and my patience is . . .

I don’t hear the end of the sentence because I walk away from him, but when I reach the gates of the cemetery I look back. The strain of standing has taken its toll on him and he is
leaning against the tree. Somehow his voice carries across the distance that separates us:

— . . . endless, Lincoln, my patience is endless.

There are people who knew me during my Soho years who cannot believe I am still alive. Neither can I.

When I think about those years, they are shocking, even to me.

I wanted to tell the story of my addiction to prove to myself I survived and to understand how I almost didn’t. I wanted it to be fearless in its honesty, regardless of how I might be
judged. It is based on real events and is, therefore, as politically incorrect and delusional as reality always is when looked at through honest eyes.

The story, of course, is not over. Although I have been dry for more than two years, I battle my addiction every day and I will do so for the rest of my life. In those two years I have not been
in any fights nor have I been abusive to anyone. Well, hardly anyone. In the book my Mum says I’m a good lad and, when I’m sober, I like to think I am. She has stuck by me when I
didn’t deserve it and I will always love her and be there for her. Thanks to my brother Duncan for not judging me for what I have done. He’s a good man whose even temper has often acted
as a steadying influence in my life.

As the book shows, my dad, Lincoln, and my son, Lewis, were a big part of my recovery. They gave me a reason to want to stop the madness and I love them both more than words can say. However,
the person who enabled me to see this, and without whom I would have never stopped drinking and using, is Dr Peter Hughes. He is a remarkable man who has helped many people clean up and find a way
out of the prison of self-destruction and despair.

A heartfelt thank you to Denise for being in my life and to your amazing sons, Matthew and Louis, for allowing me into theirs.

I would especially like to thank James for being such a great and loving friend.

I no longer see most of the people I knew in my Soho years. I want them to know that this is not anything personal. It is a decision I have made as part of my recovery. Many will not understand
my decision and will condemn me for writing this book. There is nothing I can do about that. What I can do is thank them for the good times and the bad.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my agent Carrie Kania and my editor Kerri Sharp for believing in the book.

Carrie asked me what advice I would give to an addict. I told her I don’t feel equipped to advise anyone but, if I had to, I would say the first step is to admit you’ve got a problem
and to reach out to anyone who can help. This can be your family, a friend, a professional addiction therapist or groups like Alcoholics Anonymous. While I didn’t go the strict AA route, I do
go to meetings occasionally and I provide support for other alcoholics as best as I am able. Above all, know that even in your darkest moments there is hope.

I want to end with a word about Esurio. He is, of course, fictional, although we have all met him at least once. Please take a moment now and remember your meeting with Esurio. It might make you
more compassionate in the judgements you make about me because one day you might meet him again. As I say at the end of the book: Esurio is very patient and as keen to get to know you as he was to
get to know me.